Cyril Figgis: Lady Killer
by Red Witch
Summary: Cyril's bad luck with his love life continues.


** Cyril did something to the disclaimer telling you that I don't own any Archer characters. This is more insane madness from my tiny little mind. Don't blame me. Blame…**

**Cyril Figgis, Lady Killer **

"This is starting to become a running gag," Ray grumbled as he drove up to the police station. "More like a driving gag."

"Ray!" Cyril was walking down the steps of the police station.

"That's me," Ray said acidly. "Ray Gillette's Taxi Service. How come you always gotta call **me** whenever you get picked up by the cops?"

Cyril snapped as he got in. "Because **you** are one of the few people I know when I ask to not say anything, you **won't** say anything!"

"Oh sure," Ray sighed as Cyril buckled himself in. "Blame me for being a responsible adult."

"Just take me home," Cyril sighed.

"Words every man wants to hear," Ray said comically. He started to drive. "You know what really gets me mad?"

"The fact that Cher's latest concert was cancelled?"

"No, I couldn't get tickets anyway," Ray admitted. "And I've got a shot for her upcoming tour that was rescheduled. What gets me mad is that I'm driving **you** home after a night of debauchery when it should be the **other way around**! _**I'm **_the one who should be calling you to get **me **out of trouble!"

"Ray," Cyril looked at him. "I don't want to be the one to tell you this, but you sound a lot like Archer."

"Oh, dear God I am," Ray realized. "Damn it, this dry spell is affecting my brain more than usual. I haven't gone past second base in like over a month. Or two. Or more…"

"If it will make you feel any better, you're still getting more action than Archer," Cyril said. "I know it makes **me **feel better. Some days it's the only thing keeping me from driving off a cliff into the ocean."

Ray asked. "So what did you do **this time**?"

"It's fine," Cyril said. "I wasn't charged with anything."

"You realize that doesn't sound as reassuring as you **think,** right?" Ray asked. "What happened? You might as well tell me. I am owed at least a good story for my troubles."

"Well," Cyril paused. "I was in a mood…"

"When are you **not?**"

"Will you let me **explain?**" Cyril asked. "I was feeling both good and a little blue. The good part was when I reminded myself that Archer was in a coma. And I received an Excellence Award for Small Business."

"How did **you** get an award?" Ray asked. "Oh no…Cyril you didn't buy yourself a fake award _again_, did you?"

"Technically I bought it for the agency," Cyril said. "And for a lot less than you think. From the same people who do the Grammys."

"Oh, for crying out…" Ray rolled his eyes.

"Hey, any day I don't snap and burn the agency to the ground I **deserve** an award for it!" Cyril defended.

Ray shot back. "If that was true, Ms. Archer should have received a damn Nobel Peace Prize by now. So, what's the bad part?"

"I got an e-mail from my father," Cyril said. "After I sent him an e-mail showing him a picture of my award."

"Your fake award."

"He doesn't **know **that!" Cyril snapped. "Anyway, I sent him an e-mail. And he sent me a reply. Now keep in mind I haven't heard from the bastard since last Christmas. And even then, it was just a generic card with his name signed on it. I haven't heard from him in months. Even though every now and then I send him an e-mail or call him…"

"Keeping in mind there's a time difference between LA and the East Coast…" Ray interrupted.

"And the times I know for sure he's not home," Cyril paused. "Leaving a message on the answering machine counts! He's the one who doesn't call back!"

"What did he say in the e-mail?" Ray decided to cut to the chase.

"He said, and I quote," Cyril snapped. "_That's __**it**__? You're still doing __**that?**__" _

"To be fair," Ray said. "A lot of people are saying the same thing about all of us."

"Two lousy sentences," Cyril snapped. "Not even a _How are you doing?_ Or _Atta boy!_ Nooo! That stingy old bastard can't even say Hello! And he wonders why I haven't come home to visit in twelve years! Wait, it's been longer than that. Fifteen years. That can't be right. Fifteen years since I've seen that bastard. Wow…"

"Time flies when you're not around assholes," Ray remarked.

"I know," Cyril said. "As crazy as these past months without Archer have been, they're still a lot more peaceful than when he **was here!"**

"I don't miss the bullying," Ray shrugged. "I've actually gone through a day without a scathing homophobic insult. Casual insults yeah, plenty of those but still…"

"I just wish he'd hurry up and die so I can finally have some peace," Cyril grumbled.

"Who? Archer or your father?"

"Pick one," Cyril groaned. "Anyway, I was a bit angry and upset. And I admit I was lonely. So, I decided to pick myself up by treating myself."

"You were caught masturbating in an elevator again, weren't you?"

"NOT THAT!" Cyril snapped. "You know that new fancy bar we saw on TV? The one they advertised like a couple of weeks ago? The one with the observation deck?"

"The Skylight Bar," Ray realized. "At the Grand Hollywood Hotel."

"That's the one," Cyril said. "I figured, why not go there? I figured the elevator ride alone was worth a try. And it was. A very smooth ride. Wood handling. Beautiful."

"Let me guess. You tried to get in but were turned down," Ray guessed.

"No, I got in," Cyril said. "No problems. Went to the bar and ordered a dinner with drinks even Archer would be jealous of. Steak Au Poivre with lobster tail, and caviar topped potatoes with bourbon glazed green beans. Topped off with Glengoolie Gold scotch."

"God Damn Cyril," Ray whistled. "How did you **pay **for all that?"

"Did I mention I still have Cheryl's credit card?"

"And that answers **that question**," Ray groaned. "As well as the one why they didn't throw your ass out as soon as you got there."

"Did you know a lot of people have a Tunt Corporation credit card?" Cyril asked. "Apparently a lot of people in Cheryl's company use it. They just assumed I was one of the people that work for her."

"Technically that's not a lie," Ray nodded. "What happened after that?"

"There I am," Cyril said. "I'd finished dinner and I was looking out at the skyline of the city. Watching the sunset. Drinking my scotch. Just trying to enjoy the moment for once in my life. When this woman comes over and asks if she can sit at my table. Well she's this gorgeous redhead in a dress that made Jessica Rabbit look like a frump so I said yes. Next thing I know, we're talking and having a nice conversation. And before I knew it, we were making out in the elevator on the way to her room at the hotel."

"Hang on," Ray spoke up. "This sounds **very familiar**. It sounds almost **exactly** like the time I had to pick you up and you bonked an elderly former movie star to death."

"You are not the **first **to make that connection," Cyril groaned. "But trust me, there are differences between **this** incident and **that one**."

"Not that many so far."

"Well she was a lot younger than the old woman for starters!" Cyril snapped.

"_Was?"_ Ray asked. "This does not bode well."

"There we are in her hotel room," Cyril went on. "And…"

"She turned out to be a man!" Ray guessed.

"No!" Cyril snapped. "She was a woman!"

"She was currently a woman who used to be a man!" Ray guessed.

"No!" Cyril snapped. "She was born a woman! Trust me! I saw everything!"

"Trust me honey," Ray said. "What you see isn't always what you get."

"Will you let me finish?"

"Phrasing," Ray quipped.

Cyril made a frustrated noise. "Anyway, we're finishing up and all of the sudden she clutches her chest and makes this strangling sound. The next thing I know I'm calling the paramedics because she's having a heart attack right in the room!"

"So far this is all par for the course," Ray said. "Where's the twist?"

"I'm getting to it," Cyril groaned. "I'm calling everyone I can think of and soon half the floor is looking in including the hotel police. She died before the paramedics got there and the next thing I know, the police are on the scene."

"Again," Ray said. "I've **heard** this story **before!"**

"Not **this story**!" Cyril said.

"Woman dies while having sex with you is the **exact same story** I've heard before!" Ray snapped.

"But this woman as it turns out didn't die of old age," Cyril said. "She died because she had more cholesterol in her body than the time Pam made fried butter."

"Still dead after sex," Ray said. "Where's the twist? Why didn't they arrest you?"

"They didn't arrest me because they ran her fingerprints and picture through the police computer," Cyril said. "They brought me in for questioning to find out what I knew about her! Which was absolutely nothing! And if I did, I'd **never** have slept with her!"

"What do you mean?"

"Turns out," Cyril said. "She was a serial killer that had been wanted in three states."

"WHAT?"

"I'm serious," Cyril said. "Her name was Abby Bunt. She's been wanted for fraud, embezzlement and is the prime suspect in the deaths of all four of her husbands. Who all died under mysterious circumstances on their honeymoons."

"God Damn…"

"Apparently I was probably going to be Husband Number Five," Cyril groaned. "Or Victim Number Twenty-Six. According to that jar of human teeth she kept in a suitcase."

"WHAT?"

"This is where the twist comes in," Cyril said. "When the cops searched her hotel room, they found a suitcase with the human teeth. As well as pictures of all the men she killed, a diary detailing her crimes, some rope, a pair of pliers, a couple of knives, a ball gag, some blood splattered men's underwear, and a copy of Jack Kerouac's On The Road."

"Didn't strike me as a literary type," Ray mused.

"She wasn't," Cyril groaned. "Inside the book was a hollowed-out space containing some fingers of her past victims."

"God damn Cyril!" Ray was stunned. "You sure can pick them."

"That's **another thing** the cops said to me," Cyril groaned. "They think she's the Dentist Killer. You know? Because of the teeth thing."

"It's lucky your dick killed this one too," Ray mused.

"Again," Cyril sighed. "You're not the **first **to come up with that conclusion. Don't bother with the Cyril Figgis Lady Killer jokes. Trust me, I heard them all."

"So basically…" Ray mused. "You're a private dick, whose dick killed a serial killer."

Cyril glared at him. "What part of I've heard **all the jokes** did you not understand?"

"You can really pick them!" Ray said. "I mean I've had my share of bizarre flings and one-night stands but you top them all!"

"The cops said if I did this one more time it would technically be considered a spree," Cyril moaned.

"The Killer Dick…" Ray remarked.

"Heard **that one** too!" Cyril groaned. "You can see why I called you right?"

"You should call some kind of psychiatrist or counselor," Ray suggested. "Or maybe a sex therapist? Because obviously you are doing some kind of complicated move that's killing these women!"

"That's what one of the cops said too," Cyril groaned. "And then he saw my dick."

"The plot thickens!" Ray said.

"He said he had to look at it for evidence!"

"**That** old line?" Ray snorted.

"Those cops stopped joking once they saw **that**," Cyril admitted with a smirk.

"I'll bet," Ray remarked. "What happens now?"

"We made a deal," Cyril said. "The police will get all the credit for finding her and covering up exactly how she died. I get twenty thousand dollars in reward money. Technically I did solve a case…Over twenty-five of them if they match all the DNA. And dental records."

"Look at the bright side," Ray said. "At least you can honestly tell your father you earned that award."

"No, uh uh…" Cyril said. "I'm **not **saying anything to anyone about this! Especially Ms. Archer and especially Lana."

"I get Ms. Archer," Ray said. "That money grubbing harpy would take all the money you rightfully earned for yourself. But why not Lana?"

"Why do you _**think?**_" Cyril asked. "I just don't want her opinion of me to get any lower."

"I don't think it's even possible at this point," Ray said.

"Besides," Cyril said. "This money can help the agency. Let's be honest, our group tends to spend money rather than save it. With twenty-thousand dollars at least the lights will be on for a little longer."

"Minus my cut," Ray said. "About five thousand dollars. With one hour towards my license!"

"Or," Cyril paused. "Not only will I pay for breakfast, I'll give you two hours and a dinner at the Skylight Bar tomorrow night using Cheryl's credit card if you keep your mouth shut."

"How good is their steak?"

"Phenomenal," Cyril said.

"And you're paying for breakfast using Cheryl's credit card?"

"Duh!"

"Deal," Ray said. "You really want to go back to the Skylight Bar after **everything** that happened?"

"Why not?" Cyril asked. "The food was good. The booze was good. The view was great. Cheryl's credit card still works. Who knows? Maybe we'll get lucky?"

"You already did that when that serial killer had the heart attack."

"And that elevator ride was smooth," Cyril grinned. "I could go up and down in that thing all night."

"Cyril we really need to find you some new hobbies," Ray groaned. "Because your current ones involve the police way too much!"


End file.
